Daughter of Skyrim
by Maeve's Child
Summary: The Dragonborn is for Skyrim, but she keeps a few things for herself.
1. For Skyrim

Bellona rode like Mehrunes Dagon himself was behind her, the soot of burning Whiterun still staining her windburned skin. Masser and Secunda lit the night bright enough so her horse could keep its feet, so instead of sleep she urged the horse further and further until the beast finally collapsed beneath her. She could see Windhelm in the distance as the horse panted and lathered in the weeds.

She should have cared for it. If she'd been a different women, a different sort of person, she would have felt guilt as the gelding struggled to stay alive. But instead she kept moving, further forward towards the desolate walls of the Palace of the Kings. The horse was a tool; she was a tool and a weapon. She was tasked to deliver news to Windhelm. It was what she was meant to do, what she was good for. It was the only way to scrape an ounce of honor from a life lacking. The horse couldn't restore her honor – but the Jarl might.

It started to snow. The flakes melted on to Bellona's eyelashes but she only blinked them away.

This news, despite her aching muscles and despite the blood caked everywhere; this news was the first step towards true trust with the Stormcloaks. They'd see past her face now, past her clearly Imperial heritage and see the Nord within.

She'd learned to hate Whiterun as much as she hated the Legion. It was Whiterun that sent her to the dragon. It was Whiterun and Balgruuf that forced her to kill it and it was Whiterun that made the family legend a reality.

_Dragonborn_. Just like grandfather, 10 generations back.

Until she absorbed the dragon's soul, Bellona thought it was a fiction. Just a story told by a series of unmarried women to legitimize their increasingly more illegitimate offspring. _You aren't just the bastard of a bandit, no, no my dear. Those blue eyes; those eyes we all have? Those are his. His, Martin Septim._

Always pure drivel in her mind, but then she climbed the 7000 steps and the Greybeards said she had dragon blood. There was no getting away from it - it set her up to be the perfect pawn, for both the Legion and the Stormcloaks. Even the Thalmor would be interested, human or no. Part Imperial, part Nord with the blood of a dragon and Talos himself, whether one thought he was a god or not.

Once she realized it was true, she almost hoped the elves were right. How could a woman who survived most of her life as a bandit be worthy of the blood of a god?

She told no one, and everyone who knew was already dead. Instead, she claimed to not know why her blood was so powerful and that was enough. Being the Dragonborn was more magic than blood in the end and her own magic was enough to convince anyone who asked. Instead, she joined the Stormcloaks and threw herself against whatever Ulfric Stormcloak said she must.

He would have used her if he'd known she was a Septim. She didn't blame him for that. Ulfric was a practical man as all powerful men must be to survive. The ends justified the means if it meant Skyrim would be free. She understood that.

But Bellona didn't want to be his pawn. She wanted to be his knight and worthy of his respect.

He was magnetic, this Jarl of Windhelm. Despite his high place, his untouchable status, she saw something familiar in the edge behind his eyes. He was a killer, just like she was.

So she ran on as her horse died in the snow behind her. It seemed to always be snowing here, and the few plants the struggled up through the drifts were craggy but strong. So much like the people that lived here. She wanted to fit here, though she knew she wasn't quite so hardy as even the weeds. She was cold, and she shivered in her dented steel plate. Her feet hit the cobblestones outside Windhelm as the moons started to creep down towards the horizon in the dirty and silent hours before dawn.

Guards escorted her to the palace. She wordlessly asked for silence and they obeyed. She was the Dragonborn after all; Ulfric's _Unblooded_. She was no longer just an odd Imperial woman with ochre hair short like a man's and swords paired on her belt.

The hall was deserted except for an elderly maid servant who quickly appeared with a towel and pointed her to the washbasin. The water was burgundy black from soot and blood when Bellona's hands and face were finally clean. Her armor was far more soiled, but despite frantic gesturing, she waved the maid away.

"Lady," she plead. "Please. The Jarl cannot see you now. Please, come and rest and the dawn will come."

Bellona shook her head. "It can't wait. The Jarl would not forgive us for making him wait."

"Even great men sleep, lady. The Jarl sleeps; you cannot..." Her trembling words cut off with an expression slightly frightened but mostly scandalized.

"Will you stop me?" Bellona asked. "Will they?" she added, gesturing to the sleepy guards at the doors.

"No lady, I won't. They won't."

Bellona nodded sharply and snapped towards the stone stairs. The Jarl slept at the top of the palace, but the barracks for his trusted were there as well. No separate quarters for Ulfric. Like his father, the great Bear of Eastmarch, he was just a soldier.

As the true high King should be.

Bellona's steel boots clicked on the stones, but no one in the adjoining rooms woke. Here in the heart of Windhelm, a Stormcloak could sleep soundly. It was the first of a new expanding space of peace for the true sons and daughters of Skyrim.

And if she, a descendant of Tiber Septim wasn't a true Nord, she didn't know who was.

The door to Ulfric's chamber was closed, but unlocked and even he did not stir right away as the door slid open on greased hinges. The fire still burned, but low, haloing the tall posts of the bed and the still form of the soon to be High King in faint orange light.

Two more soft clicking steps and the door came to a stop against the stones before the Jarl woke. He sat up slowly, no fear in his eyes. This was one place he too was safe. For now.

"What is it?" his voice was coarse with sleep. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. He wore a robe lined with fur and linens and little else. "Unblooded?" He sat up quickly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "It's done then?"

"Yes my lord," she came a knelt on the dais where the bed was perched. With no irony, she continued "We've driven the Imperials out of Whiterun."

"This is good. Very good. We now control the center. It's a powerful position. One I aim to keep." His voice was warm and merry, despite being so abruptly woken. He cocked his head and studied her for a moment in the wan light. "The thick blood of this land has seeped into your heart." He smiled. "We'll call you _Ice-Veins_ now."

"As my lord wishes," she said. She was strong enough to keep her eyes on him. It was never easy, she always felt he would see something there she didn't want him to see. Like her grandmother always said, _those eyes, those blue eyes, those are his, Martin._ Ah, but what did the old woman know? And who had seen a Septim in centuries except in stone statues and shrines outlawed by the White-Gold Concordat? What was left of Martin Septim himself but some fabled statue of Akatosh?

Besides, that was the least of what he might see. Worse that he saw her admiring the sharp planes of his face or the ridges of his chest just visible in the faint light. More terrifying that he see her adoration that was more than soldier to commander, more than even woman to man, but cresting into something _more._

If Ulfric saw anything, he didn't let on.

"You don't seem the type," he said, shaking his head. "I keep expecting you to talk back like Galmar does."

"I'm adept at it," Bellona replied, perhaps too quickly. "If you'd rather."

Ulfric laughed. "Perhaps." He reached out and lifted her chin, turning her face to the side, looking less jovial. "You should see Wuunferth. You're cut."

Bellona shook her head. "Doesn't hurt. Wuunferth is not what I need." She sounded a little breathless.

She knew what she needed, with Ulfric's warm calloused fingers still lingering on her chin. His eyes were shadow dark as he inspected her wound, as if his eyes would somehow will the damage to fade.

He touched the edges of the cut and there was still no pain.

"What do you need?" he asked. There was an undercurrent to his voice she recognized, but almost wondered if she was imagining.

"Only what..." she stopped. _Madness._ "Only what I can't have."

He raised an eyebrow, but still didn't meet her eyes. One rough finger traveled along the sharp ridge of her cheekbone, just below the cut that would be sure to scar if she didn't have it seen to. But maybe, to be truthful, she wanted this scar. To remember her victory by - to remember the look in Balgruuf's eyes when she forced his surrender, when she spit in the eye of the Legion that made her life a hell and took her family.

Bandits or not, they were her family. They didn't deserve to be slaughtered.

"So you are one of those, eh?" he asked. "Someone always wondering which new unwritten rule to break and living by instinct and hot blood?"

"Some things are just blood," she replied.

"I suppose they are, Dovakiin." She shuddered at the mention. He seemed to take her shiver as a reaction to his still roving fingers that had now crept down the side of her neck. He looked pleased and she let him have the pleasure. "I envy you in that. Perhaps High King is something another man might want, but I only desire it because...I must. Skyrim needs heroes, and there is no one else."

His eyes finally met hers with more unspoken words. Bellona's heartbeat skipped.

"Is there anything you desire for just yourself?"

He looked sad for a moment. "Peace." He sighed. "To retire from the world and be just a man." Once he was a man learning to be one that worships Kynareth with the voice. Once he learned a Thu'um as she did with the soul of a dragon. For ten years Ulfric has lived in High Hrothgar and she could see in his entire countenance that he missed that simple life. There were other, planned things from a life before politics that he seemed to miss as well. He rested the palm of his hand against the pulse in her throat. "And other things I should not take."

"Enough has already been lost to you, I think," Bellona said. "Take what is offered when you can."

"Does this mean you are offering...yourself to me?" Ulfric was blunt, but saw quickly to the heart of the matter. Bellona would have offered him anything; he already had her loyalty and her honor and her life. What was her body after all that?

She nodded.

"Shall I take then, even knowing that I can't keep it? The High King must..."

"Must not marry one with Imperial blood," she finished for him. "But even Martin Septim wasn't the Empress' son." She was mad to invoke him. _Akatosh, Talos; what did they think? Would they frown and intervene?_ The heat of battle was still coursing through her, despite the distance she'd traveled. It made her bold.

Ulfric seemed to consider for a moment.

"Close the door," The Jarl commanded, and Ice-Veins, she obeyed.

* * *

Ulfric made his way to the fire, and fed new logs that caught quickly in the embers. The light increased and Bellona could see his face in the orange glow even from the door. It closed behind her and she slipped the bolt into place. Safe from assassins, yes, but not from gossip. Soldiers were worse than any fishwife.

The fur mantle slipped from his shoulders on to the floor as he gestured to her. She made her way to him, her heart hammering in her chest. She wondered how she could desire something she'd never before tasted with such a fierceness. It had been that way from that first moment in Helgen, as soon as the gag had been cut away and she heard the purr of his voice. Even with her hands still bound and the dragon screaming fire, she saw something more than just the Jarl of Windhelm. Even then she saw the man underneath and with the ghost of the headman's axe still lingering on her throat, she already belonged to Ulfric and his cause. And now perhaps, she could belong to the man as well.

Wordlessly he reached out with practiced fingers, started to unbuckle straps of her armor to find the flesh underneath.

"Never was one for plate," he said, as he dropped pieces of filthy steel on the floor. The noise clattered distinctively. Bellona tried to pull away; she could remove her armor herself. It made him subservient to help her and she tried to wave him away. The High King shouldn't, nay _couldn't,_ bow to commoner and an Imperial, no matter what the circumstance. He seemed to disagree and stopped her. "Always prefered steel chain. Even now." His hands were insistent, even if his words did not match.

She complied with her Jarl's wishes.

As each piece of armor hit the floor, she felt warmer which was not as it should be. Plate was hot, dreadfully hot, but there was no relief without it here. The fire was warm, truly, but Bellona knew this fire was coming from within. Finally, her gambison slipped over her head and she stood in only smallclothes and firelight.

He inspected her carefully, mindful of the places where the plate has bruised her. It wasn't a good fit, this armor scrounged from the dead.

"Perhaps you need to see the smith," he said, his voice as conversational as if they were in the hall, not nearly undone in the privacy of his chamber. "Oengul could fashion you something that fits." He patted absently at a spot rubbed red and raw on her waist as if she was a horse. It took only a moment before his fingers began to roam with different intention, sliding up around the curve of her ribs and the ropy muscle along her spine.

Ulfric stepped back, assessed her further. He reached into the washbasin and moistened a square of linen to bring against her neck. The water was as cold as the blizzard raging just beyond the leaded window. Gooseflesh raised across Bellona's body. Her nipples tightened and pressed hard against the rough cloth of their bindings. A pulse of heat echoed elsewhere.

He moved the rag along her collarbones and down between her breasts, wiping away sweat and soot and inhibitions alike.

"I know what fits," she said, taking initiative and moving closer. The movement trapped his hand in the cleavage between her breasts and against the soft skin there. "And its not my armor. It's this. This life, this land, this cause. Your cause._"_ She paused as she wove her fingers into the thickness of the hair on the back of his head. His hand slipped lower, pulling down the last of the fabric covering her, dropping the damp cloth. His sword calloused hand cupped her, his fingers pressing into liquid, pliable flesh.

"_You_ fit, my Jarl," her voice was hardly a whisper. "I would kill them all, if you only asked." It was melodramatic, but her head was swimming and at that moment it was true.

Ulfric leaned forward and nipped at her neck. His lips moved against her pulse. "I hardly expect you to drive the Empire from Skyrim single handed."

"I would, if only you would ask," she replied, her head falling back. She leaned forward, pressing the length of her body against him. Bellona was tall, and they fit together perfectly. She felt the ridge of his erection.

His mouth moved along the edge of her jaw. His hips ground against hers. "I believe you." His fingers tugged at her smallclothes, tearing the much laundered fabric until scraps fluttered to the floor.

She groaned and ran her hands along the small of his back. She let him push her up the two stairs of the dais until she fell back on to the sturdy straw of the bed. He slipped his trews from his hips before following. Ulfric was hovering over her then, levered on his arms. The fire haloed his hair. His hips moved forward without hesitation. His cock slid inside her smoothly, as if they were practiced lovers.

His eyes closed at the sensation, but then opened to smile at her.

"We fit," he said. Bellona hands grasped him tightly. Urged him to move. He began a rhythm, slow at first but steady. She arched to her back up to meet his thrusts. She closed her eyes.

"One thing," he said, his hips started to move faster; the heavy muscles in his thighs pushed relentlessly. "This one thing for me, and for you. And everything else, for Skyrim."

"For Skyrim," she echoed.

He couldn't speak anymore then, his voice lost in his pleasure. Perhaps he feared his own voice. The Greybeards would have taught him that, yet he wouldn't know that she was the one person in all of Skyrim who his voice couldn't harm.

"For you," she said, meeting his harder movements with her own, her short fingernails digging into the meat of his back, sliding down the firmness of his ass and pushing him into her. Harder. More.

"Ulfric," she groaned his name and he lost his control, but it was only a man's voice shouting at her as he rode out his pleasure. She felt him come, felt him pulse inside her.

Not wise maybe, such a risky thing to do, but passion overrode sense.

"If only," he breathed against her neck. She felt him shake his head, the sweat on his brow damp on her cheek. "But no, this is not something we can have where anyone can see. No matter what I might want."

"No one needs know, my lord," Bellona whispered in reply. "I am for you; Bellona is for you, not for Skyrim. But Ice-Veins will still be yours to command."

"As long as we can remember the difference," he said, sliding his weight off her and pulling her against his chest.

They both knew they shouldn't sleep, shouldn't take the chance that anyone would see her leave. But neither could leave. They both hoped the passion would fade as the sweat dried, but something else took its place and kept them entwined together. They slept for the few hours until dawn awoke them.

As the sunlight pestered its way through the heavy curtains, Bellona kissed Ulfric. After that, Ice-Veins dressed herself and left with orders to secure the Reach.


	2. For Sanguine

This time, she barreled into the throne room in broad, brilliant daylight. The sun was streaming through the leaded glass panels flanking the stone chair where Ulfric sat conferring with his steward. She'd taken careful effort to clean and prepare herself, vanity perhaps, but her pounding heart insisted on it. Her new Orcish armor fit perfectly and gleamed as much as that rough material could. Her gold hair had grown a little and strands hung in her eyes. Normally, she would have hacked them away in the field, but the memory of Ulfric's hand feathering through her hair gave her pause.

Bellona was proud. The Reach had fallen like autumn's leaves; the Forsworn had perished in droves in the name of the Jarl of Windhelm and corruption had been routed from the heart of Markarth like a worm from an apple.

"The Reach is yours, my lord," she said grandly as she reached his feet. "Markarth has fallen to the Stormcloaks." She knelt with a flourish and looked up at him expectantly.

"You need to get married," Ulfric blurted out as a reply.

"What?" Bellona heard her voice ask incredulously before she could stop herself.

"Jorleif has brought to my attention that there are..._rumors_ that need to be silenced," he explained with a blandness that chilled her blood. "I cannot have my honor, nor yours for that matter, be questioned before the Moot. Despite your victories, and I do recognize them, if you are to continue to be my champion, your honor must be flawless. A husband will quiet the hounds."

"But my lord, I...," she was at a loss for words. She simply stared up at him with wide, uncomprehending eyes.

His expression didn't falter, didn't flinch. She thirsted for some flicker of emotion, some quick revelation in his face that would belie the cold hardness of his eyes and the rigid set of his brow, but there was nothing. His face was a impassive as a mountain.

"Rest yourself for a while, Ice-Veins," he said casually, dismissing her with a wave of his hand. "You have done well, but there is much still to be done and plans to discuss before I can send you to deal the final blow to the Empire. I will speak with you after the evening meal. Meet me in the war room to receive your orders."

"I...yes, my lord," she said quickly, composing herself and pulling a mask of apathy over the shocked expression she wore. "It is as you say."

"As it should be."

He turned his face away without even a flash from his eyes and and she spun away before her equanimity failed. She marched from the throne room with as much dignity as she could muster, straining herself to not hear the murmurs and whispers as she passed.

* * *

The hours from that moment until what little food she could stomach sat in her belly like a stone were long and filled with recriminations.

Bellona didn't know what she'd expected from Ulfric, but it hadn't been that. He'd always been free with praise before; before she bedded him. She didn't see how her contribution to the cause was lessened...unless his affection afterwards had been a mistake?

She had a young woman's flighty thoughts running through her head. She tried to fight them but they didn't respond to sword or spell, and those were the only weapons she had. Bellona was no maiden; she'd sold that virtue long ago and she had no delusions of romance. She hardly expected declarations of love and never-ending devotion. But she hadn't expected the icy reception she received along with a demand that she run off and jump into bed with another man.

She knew she should have expected it. Skyrim was a land of ice and bluster and the Nord men were no different: Cold and stormy and sometimes, the men froze you to the bone worse than any blizzard. Bellona wavered between yearning for him and yearning to break his nose.

Then he sauntered in like a stag as if there was no ice dividing them.

"Bellona." His voice rolled over her like distant thunder. He wore a smirk on his infuriatingly handsome face. She still wanted to punch him but she was certainly not the first with such an urge. His nose had clearly been broken before but he wore it proudly. She wasn't sure it would bother him if she broke if again.

"My lord," she replied perfunctorily, making sure to keep the map table carefully between them. Ulfric frowned and shook his head at her chilly demeanor.

"I thought you were made of sterner stuff than this, Stormblade," he muttered.

"Stormblade?" she asked. It was a new title he hadn't offered her before.

"Aye," he said, matter-of-fact. "Oengul finished your new blade a fortnight ago and Wuunfurth is adding enchantments as we speak. Ice and Lightning on ebony; a sword fit for a champion. A beautiful and deadly weapon...just like you." He looked a bit sheepish at that.

A tiny smile cracked the corner of her mouth despite the battle she fought against it. She growled a little under her breath, not sure whether she was still more angry with him or with herself for being so easily charmed.

"Be that as it may," she said, quickly squelching the merriment threatening in her expression and trying to match the icy tone he'd offered her earlier. "It is not what I wish to...question my Jarl about."

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

"I suppose not," he said. "Too hardheaded to let that go. I should have expected as much."

"So I'm just to _let it go_ until after we rut on the table and then ask questions later?" Her reply was quick and vulgar.

He chuckled. "A man can hope."

Bellona crossed her arms across her chest, the metal of her vambraces chinking against her cuirass. She still wore her armor though she'd carefully removed her gauntlets so her hands wouldn't sweat. She could bare to remove her cuirass; her heart felt like it needed protection.

"What I said was true," he explained, suddenly serious again. "There are rumors. Quite vivid ones, in fact. Apparently we were more _vigorous_ than we realized during your last stay. It does wonders for my reputation amongst my men, but I rather doubt the other Jarls would see it in such a manner." He shook his head. "I didn't think it would need to be said that I need to be free of complications to allow for possible political alliances."

"It does not need to be said," she snapped back, her frustration showing. "But I don't see what in the name of Talos that has to do with me getting married!"

"There is nothing else that will end the chatter." His brow was furrowed. "Anything I say or you say will just encourage the beasts. Rumors are like giants; they are harmless unless you provoke them, but once they are charging? The only option then is to kill or be killed. I can see no other way."

"I...," Bellona tried to begin but it rolled over her. _He was right._ _Talos damn him to the pits of Oblivion but he was always right. _

"I don't like it either," he said, quickly circumnavigating the table and placing his hands on the scale mail above her elbows and below the ornate spaulders of her armor. At first his grip was gentle and hardly noticeable through the flexible metal scales but as he stared at her, his shadowed green eyes boring into hers, his fingers tightened until they were biting into her skin. The leather backing creaked in protest.

"I not only don't _like_ it," he continued. "I _despise_ it. The idea of another man touching you makes me sick." His eyes glittered feverishly.

Bellona tried to pull her arms free. She had no desire to get away from him; if anything she wanted to be able to move closer, to throw her arms around his waist and profess that she felt the same. She was a powerful woman but his hands held fast. She jerked her arm forward and the only result was one of the scales on her armor slicing through the leather and biting into her skin.

"Ulfric," she said, swallowing. "You're hurting me." The double meaning hung in the air between them.

_My arm is bleeding; you're breaking my heart._

"I know," he said, perversely squeezing his fingers tighter. By now, Bellona could feel the sticky dampness of blood. "But I can't help it."

Any earlier levity had evaporated into this moment. It always came down to this between them. Perhaps they loved those jovial moments of victory and joy snatched between battles but in the end they were dark creatures both. There was no escaping their primal natures.

"I love you," she admitted finally and without a word, he crushed her against him, kissing her hard enough to cut her lips on his teeth. His beard felt like coarse wires against her face.

There was no door on the war room so he pulled away quickly, trying to avoid fueling more rumors. There was a sheen of blood glistening on his lips. He reluctantly released his grip on her arms and she reached up and wiped her blood from his lip with her thumb. Bellona popped her thumb into her mouth.

Ulfric watched her with great interest as she pulled her thumb back out of her mouth with agonizing slowness, dragging it against lips shiny with the moisture from her tongue.

"By the Nine, woman," he swore at her.

She smiled around the tip of her thumb giddy with the power of her seduction. He cleared his throat and abruptly turned to the map on the table just as Yrsarald Thrice-Pierced appeared. He was frequently present at these briefings and Bellona knew it was as much for his participation as his skills as a chaperone. Ulfric told her once that he valued the man's analytical mind and his bloodthirsty hatred of the Empire equally, but she knew it was more about having a warm body in the room to prevent the distraction of being alone together. Bellona wished for a perverse moment that he was unmarried so she could have him and flaunt it in front of Ulfric. But no, the man was married and more than that, the whole point of marrying was to be able to continue living as they truly wanted to.

If Ulfric's feelings as a man didn't matter to her, she would have just walked away. His cause was important. The destruction of the Empire was important, but not enough to tie herself to someone, perhaps someone just for the sake of doing it, to silence the jackals? It wouldn't have been enough. The Jarl of Windhelm was not enough, nor was the High King of Skyrim. But Ulfric?

Ulfric was enough.

"My Jarl," Yrsarald said in greeting. "Ice-Veins." There was a hint of a chuckle in his strong Nordic accent.

Ulfric narrowed his eyes at the man. "She is now called Stormblade, Commander, to show her love our love and honor for her great victory in the Reach." Yrsarald didn't manage to stop the little bark of a laugh that escaped him at Ulfric's mention of love.

Growling, _Ulfric_ disappeared replaced by the far more immense and powerful High King of Skyrim. "Is there a problem?"

Yrsarald's expression went as sober as a priest. "No, my lord. Forgive me, I meant no disrespect."

Ulfric nodded harshly. "See that you keep it that way. Now," he continued as if nothing had occurred and all was business as usual. "As we discussed, we are here to see that Solitude falls. It is the only remaining foothold the Empire has left. There are a few targets before we take the city, and some delays to contend with. And, Stormblade is getting married soon, isn't that right?" his voice was direct but conversational.

_The bastard._

"That's right," Bellona replied, matching his tone despite the sudden urge to strangle him. Nothing like giving her a chance to actually find someone she might be interested in marrying. Even if they lived as so many other powerful people have, with a personal life disconnected from their official capacities, she was still going to have to share a home and a bed with this husband sometimes.

"Who's the lucky man?" Yrsarald asked. It was a perfectly legitimate question. It was a question she had no idea how to answer.

"That's between Stormblade and Mara for now, Yrsarald," Ulfric intervened. It was a ridiculous assertion, but who was going to argue with him? Instead, he turned the conversation back to the plans for the taking of Solitude until Yrsarald's eyes glazed over and he made an excuse to leave.

When he finally disappeared through the door and his footsteps through the throne room faded away, Bellona spun on Ulfric and pinned him against the wall. She hadn't forgotten the awkward position he put her in, despite hours of tactics and troop deployment decisions.

"Between Mara and me, is it?" she said, pressing her arm against his throat. It was like she'd forgotten he was the true High King of Skyrim, and instead he was just an unruly lover. She refused to let the little voice in the back of her head control her actions, the one shrieking about station and _appropriate respect. _It was probably smarter than she was as she pressed her forearm more firmly against his windpipe.

His eyes shone with arousal. It thrilled her when he swallowed hard and she felt his throat move.

"Yes," he croaked. "And this is between us and Dibella."

Bellona leaned back a little, releasing the pressure, but not moving her arm. Ulfric took a breath.

"Ha," she spat at him, her lips nearly touching his face. "Dibella be damned. This is the worship of Sanguine."

He looked mildly horrified by that, though not enough to unman him. He was a good dutiful Nord, even if he'd bent half of Windhelm's wenches and widows over a table at one point or another. Daedra worship was apparently a step further than he'd gone before.

"Trust me," Bellona whispered, flicking the tip of her tongue against his bottom lip and reveling in the sharp intake of his breath and the involuntary tension that sprung up along the length of his body. "I've met him, and he's a sick bastard. He'd enjoy this little mess immensely."

Ulfric's eyebrows drew together. "I didn't know you worshiped the Daedra." His voice shook a little. Like the good Talos fearing Nord he was, the Daedra appropriately frightened him. Didn't matter how much blood a man had spilled, he still fears the unknown.

Bellona grinned. "I met him in a tavern as only a man," she purred wickedly, relishing the scent of Ulfric's discontent and the sudden reversal of power between them. "He got me drunk and made me do a crazy treasure hunt. Then he rewarded me with a staff." She chuckled. "Daedra aren't like Nine, my lord. They don't ask for or require that sort of worship."

She took half a step back and instead of straightening herself, she slid slowly to the floor, her eyes focused intently on his. She knelt before him, sliding her hands up the hard muscles of his thighs until they reached the heavy buckle that held his belt. With practiced fingers, she unwrapped the leather and let the belt fall to the floor.

From the sharp intake of his breath and the heat that flushed his cheeks, she knew Ulfric had forgotten about the daedra and the Nine and any delusions of propriety or even concern that they were in a room without a door. His entire world had contracted into the space between her fingers and his body.

"Let me show you what worship is, my lord," she said softly and then used her mouth for a different type of prayer.

_Sanguine would be pleased._


End file.
